


Abandoned

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-28
Updated: 2006-02-28
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Reed in leather pants. Reed/f. (05/18/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Challenge from Taryn Eve.  


* * *

Dublin crawled with life in those days. Long and frenzied nights were wrought with clutching sweaty hands. Always a drink spilled, or a cigarette dropped, but we were young and new and had no knowledge of our impending fate.

San Francisco was another favourite. The crowds were different, younger, but more...ambitious. And they were playful. Though we had accustomed ourselves to a hurried pace in Dublin, our nights were even longer here, and success kept us out until the sun was rising. We hit the floor with a satisfied gasp.

There was no greater feeling than a smooth hand slipping underneath cool leather.

Then came Starfleet, and a ship they called Enterprise, and we knew, though no mention of it was ever made, that our time for being useful had passed.

He surprised us by taking us with him when everything else was deemed unnecessary. To the great frontier they called 'space', but a tiny dresser drawer would have to suffice. For the first time, lines of worry began to etch our skin.

Day after day became the same, just as we had feared. Forgotten and abandoned. It was no life for ones so tightly filled with flesh and energy once. Time had always been our greatest enemy, and we grew listless and dull. Such is the fate of all of our kind, but pride can be a formidable and crushing foe.

* * *

We've missed his touch. Yanking us free, we groan as sensation reminds us of times past. He is as gentle as we remember, but his hands are still rough and callused, strong in their grip.

Then we are filled again, seams stretching with a quiet moan. Our wrinkles are smoothed out with the solid touch of well-known hands, and they stroke firmly along the length of our skin. Tightly he pulls a belt across his waist.

He is admiring himself in the mirror now. We look damn good.

There comes a chirp from the door of his quarters, and Malcolm gives his hair one last glance before darting to answer it. He is shaking in anticipation; we can feel every movement he makes, a fortunate by-product. It is our flesh to his, for we have always fit tightly.

A quiet pause as his companion pads in.

Then, it seems we are not so useless after all. As fast as we have known our Malcolm to be, he is pressed tightly against another warm, squirming body. We gasp in unison as hot hands are travelling below his hips, clutching him closer, and a moment later, a finger slides beneath us to travel across the dip in his lower back.

Are we in Dublin, or San Francisco? We can hardly tell in our bliss.

Long fingers have travelled to Malcolm's navel. He shudders as they move lower, moving again beneath our skin to find his. There is, as we have anticipated, the conspicuous sound of a zipper, and we are pulled down and off with the hurried touch of two unfamiliar hands.

Gasping ourselves, we settle down. They are frantically pulling each other towards the bed now, and for the time being, we are forgotten. We do not mind, however; we are abandoned on the floor, lying in a gloriously wrinkled heap. It is where we are meant to be.

Nearby, Malcolm moans low under his breath.

Dear God.


End file.
